


I've always wanted a pet...  THAT COULD KILL ME!

by oonaseckar



Category: Smallville, Smallville Season 11 (Comics), Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Happy Ending, Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-30 12:09:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20771831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oonaseckar/pseuds/oonaseckar
Summary: Jimmy knocked himself out trying to kill Davis. ... I don't hate Jimmy - I just enjoy torturing him. There's a crucial and kinky difference. (It's the Watchtower in Doomsday: with a few differences.)





	I've always wanted a pet...  THAT COULD KILL ME!

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Monsters, Inc._

There was no way the building was going to hold. Chloe knelt and peered out the Watchtower apartment window, as discreetly as possible, at the carnage below. There were still signs of life: the odd mauled, blood-spattered civilian, twitching in shadow, hoping for invisibility. But after escaping Oliver's cunning plan – and she stopped, to marvel that her internal monologue was evidently still capable of _withering_ _sarcasm_ – and dealing with the Justice League, Doomsday had turned his attention to the Watchtower building, sensing the location of the flesh prison he'd fought so long.

He was turning his attention to _them_.

The hand gripped her shoulder in the same moment the monstrous creature below charged the north wall. She felt the faint shudder: the way it butted heads with concrete and clay, and concrete and clay gave the most minute indication that submission would, eventually, be forthcoming.

She felt a shudder of another kind, but that was less worrying. She was used to it, by now. Putting her hand on Davis', she patted it, reassuringly. Well, as reassuring as it was possible to be, given the circumstances. 'He hasn't seen me. I think he just knows we're here anyway. Some instinct, maybe, how can we know?'

'Come away anyway,' Davis said urgently, taking hold of her shoulders, and he wouldn't have it when she tried to pull away from his steady urging, for all her irritable twitch. As he drew her away she spotted one more thing, though, down below.

Her gasp was painful, the clutch at her heart. One more time, how could he be doing this to her? It was all long dead, and he could hurt her _still_. 'Clark's still alive!'  
  
Davis stilled, then pushed her back behind him, took a wary look himself, scanning the streets. The tiny figure of Clark Kent was easier than any other to spot: he was more thoroughly blood-soaked than any, thrown half way down Main Street, just visible. Like a rag doll, Chloe supposed. Wasn't that what people said? As she pushed forward – as Davis yanked her back – she spotted a difference, though. A _living_ doll: she could see slow movement, one leg straightening, easing. Clark lifted his head a little: then let it sag back down.  
  
'He's hurt,' Davis said, and Chloe's laugh was fierce, high, sharp.  
  
'Hurt? He's half-dead. Look at him. Look at what that – he's in a bad way. A very bad way.' It wasn't as if she wanted to cry, it would do no earthly good to any of them at this point. She couldn't seem to help it, though.  
  
There was a thump: and the building shifted, eased, giving up a little more resistance, a slowly-tried virgin. Davis turned back to her, tried a light embrace, to give some comfort even at this point. 'He's Kryptonian. He'll recover.'  
  
'In time? Before your parasite gets done with us and goes back for him?' she asked bitterly. Davis covered up the flinch pretty well: but then, she knew him pretty well, by this point. The hug she gave him was brief and fierce. 'I'm not blaming _you._ Don't be an idiot.'  
  
All she felt, though, as she pulled away, was utter detachment, a sudden descent of lovely cold indifference, like snowflakes, to everything. Drifting around her, numbing and pleasant. Davis had never had anything, she hadn't had much herself, grateful as she tried to be. They were going to die, quite unpleasantly, quite imminently: and probably Clark too. Odds were everyone else was dead already, or everyone they cared about, at least. Jimmy would die with them: it was a blessing, really, that he'd managed to knock himself out in his drug-fuelled ragey attack on Davis, when he'd appeared to find them huddled together, having a _moment_ in the apartment where they'd been dumped.   
  
For safety's sake, she thought with a sob-soaked laugh. Left behind, where it was _safe_. The building shook again.  
  
Taking two steps brought her up against Jimmy's body. His living breathing body – for the time being. She toed his shoulder, once, twice, and it didn't wake him. Kneeling beside him, she thumbed one lid open, and winced away from the expanse of dulled white eyeball, let the lid fall. There was a throw on the couch, and she dropped it over him, turned his head away. After all, even unconscious, there were some things you didn't want your ex-husband to witness.  
  
That was the moment before she pulled off her blouse, breaking a couple of buttons. No use in delicate burlesque routines here. No time for them, in fact. The floor actually shook underneath her feet with the next impact – the _floor shook._ Hardly time for anything, not even what she had in mind.   
  
Davis' voice was uncertain behind her, when he said, 'Chloe. What...' _are you doing_, was sufficiently implied. Except, that was obvious enough. It was only the purpose that was, for Davis evidently, at least, murky and obscured. She had her bra off, her skirt, and was pulling at the feet of her pantyhose, before she replied in a voice both breathless and annoyed.   
  
'Come on, Davis. You're not going to convince me that you're stupid, not at this stage of the game. We've been too conscientious and hunted and, well, _depressed_ to do a damn thing about anything, up until this point. And now, we're going to be dogfood in, what would you say? Fifteen minutes? I'd ask if you want to die a virgin, but I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that's not an issue. Not for me, either, in case you were wondering. Brief marriage adequately consummated, not much beyond that to report. And now, lover,' she added, turning to face him, disrobed and cheerfully making no attempts at modesty, 'your turn. I suggest you get 'em off.'

He hesitated, with a crumpled face, and it felt heartless to laugh but of course she did anyway. 'Really? Not sure you want to, or not sure it's a good idea? Now? What, shall we talk about _feelings _for the next ten or twelve minutes, then see what we can fit into our last hundred and eighty seconds?'

There was no time to be shy, it was a problem. None of the traditionally awkwardly erotic phase of _do you want to shall we are we sure about this. _No pretence, no veils, no maidenly hesitation.

The trouble and the frown melted off Davis' face, though, replaced by utter calm. Message getting through, then. Chloe walked away, ass twitching, to the stupidly oversized couch, and lay down on the rough peasanty designer surface. Christ: if she'd had any warning she was going to die today, and was also going to have to stage a seduction scene... Well. Work with what you've got. Eventful. All her days were goddamn eventful. She ought to be used to it by now.

By the time she'd finished wriggling and trying to get comfy, stupid cushion ridges biting into her ass, he had his shirt off – oops, she'd missed that, and paid closer attention – was working on his pants, got down to briefs, socks, flicked a glance at her to check he had an audience. He was flushed even before she whistled and yelled, 'Want any help?' but it was nice to see the smile too.

As he pulled socks and briefs off she broke into a short round of applause, which got her an eye-roll and a muttered, 'For God's sake.' And a laugh, too. Fuck Doomsday, _fuck_ him. Davis landed on the couch midway through her commenting about his cock being, if not ready for action, at least on the alert, and how admirable that was given the circumstances. Or maybe just a reflection on the truth of masculine stereotypes, and was it really true that- He shut her up with a kiss, which was as much as they'd ever tried before. But it was some different _sans_ clothes. Then he lifted his head and said, 'If you're just going to – if you're going to talk about my _cock_ then-' Giving up, he thrust up against her, and his skin was burning hot as he hardened up, as his cock slid against her pubis, her belly. Chloe reached down to help out.

She laughed. 'You're always such a nice boy, Davis. Even now. Wish I could have taken you home to meet my mother.' It wasn't exactly her best line but it seemed to work: he landed his head hard in the crook of her shoulder as she worked him harder – just as if she'd had her hand on his cock ever, as if they'd done this every day, and Christ they _should have._ And hard exhales in her ear interspersed with quiet little moans suggested they were about ready. No time to lose: when the couch shook along with the floor, with the impacts they were both trying to ignore, now, she closed her eyes and felt a flood of tears fighting to get loose. It almost killed the mood, except she wouldn't let it.

Shifting around to get her legs around him, grunting like a real lady with the urgency and the effort, he got the idea quick and helped her out. A bit quicker than she was expecting: the yank under her knee had her ass slithering forward and forced a yelp out of her that was a lot less than sultry. Still it got them nicely in place with barely a snicker: he heaved her ass up and rested his forehead against her, just a moment. 'I feel like we've missed about twenty steps,' he said, helpless, and she always hated _helpless_, coming from him. So fucking much. She would destroy endangered species, and assassinate worthy heads of state, to prevent him ever feeling helpless again. Given the opportunity, and time, which they were short of.

She sighed, and squirmed, felt him nudge up against her at the anatomically appropriate spot. 'Well, the birth control element is right out. You don't find condoms erotic, right? Come on, man, have at it,' she encouraged. The sudden boom coming from the north wall suggested Doomsday was getting bored and changing it up. It also dislodged Davis in place slightly, had him sprawled over her a little further, all to the good.

And, 'Faster,' was all she said, when he gripped her ass harder and took her at her word, pushed her thighs further apart and pushed home. As far as anything or anyone had ever been home for him.

'You okay?' was also as flowery as he got in the next twenty or so seconds.

'Just do it,' was as much as he got back, though in fact it was hurting a fair amount. It had been a long while. If you could never go home again or restore a hymen without surgical intervention, it could surely feel like it. When he tried to reach down and get some access to her clit, she smacked his hand away, grimacing as he finally lodged in place and actual pain subsided to a dull burn. 'We really don't have time,' she pointed out, and a rumble along the wall underscored her point. 'I'll do it myself, we'll get there quicker.' His eyes were wide, and oh Lord was that faint _shock_ as she hit the spot quickly, began to bring herself off. 'Too porny for you, love?' she mocked, tears gathering, laughter tickling. 'Is it always _candles_ for you, and James Blunt in the background – I'll bet it is – and cooking for them beforehand? Me and your exes, we should get together and compare notes, not that it's going to happen.'

The smile dropped from his face – not angry, just set, intent – and she approved, as he propped himself up on his arms, looked down and watched as she rubbed herself off, wriggled against him for a comfier fit. 'That's it, 'she agreed, hoicking a leg further around, far enough to kick him on the ass, 'put your back into it, love. Isn't this what you wanted? It's your last five minutes,' she panted out, raw, hauling herself up to hiss in his ear, 'well, take what you want. Did you ever get anything else you wanted, really?'

It was enough: he pushed her back down and she was pleased to be pushed, quite pleased enough to be held in place and slowly fucked like a flesh and blood girl with her ankles round his ears, not a china doll, not a princess or an angel. Only he needed to speed up, and she reached and pinched him, pulled a face and squeezed internally as close to a vice as she could get, so he jerked and reared up, collapsed against her and swore more creatively than she'd ever heard from him. 'Christ, don't – you want me to come now? Don't-' She didn't mind incoherence, but the loss of rhythm was no good.

'General idea, yes. It may be an unusual request but, hey, special circumstances. Fuck me, fuck me quicker, do it now.' And she reached as far as she could, near enough grabbed his ass, gave manual indication of appropriate speed and rhythm. But he put her hands away from him, and held them there, and that was okay. Visibly shrugged and indeed had at it as he held her in place, so all she could do was gasp out fast breaths and lock her legs tighter round him, feel him getting closer in the shudder of his shoulders while she was still too far away. Still it felt like a triumph, to have him stop _being good _and _making nice_ and staying quiet, in the hope of some love or comfort or just being allowed a little peace and space: to _have_ him, him to take her because it was the single thing he wanted right now, as he hammered inside her, speeded up more, more, lost rhythm and re-started it. Till he started a low moan in her ear and she was just clinging on as he came, not so much the earnest nice guy now she was opened up wide, wet and clinging around him. He had her pinned and gently bitten as he rode her through it, bruises that would never have the chance to form and bloom on her tit, her hip.

He loosed her arms as he pushed into her a last few strokes, riding it out, and she held on to the machining of his shoulders, stared at the ceiling still held in the uncomfortably buzzed, sensitized point of _not quite ready to come,_ while he gasped and breathed hot against her neck, slowed and stopped.

They were done, probably done, more ways than one. They were probably, almost certainly, toast. But no, no, Davis wasn't done after all, not until she was. He hauled himself up – a trace of fatigue in the slowness, and she preened only a little over that – kissed her hard, emphatic, something wet brushing her cheek that could have been him or her. Then reached down, slid a hand to where she'd touched herself and started working her to her protests. 'What, you think we have time for this, you think, oh well...'

She was near enough, he was efficient enough, it didn't take long, and he only laughed anyway. 'We've got time to _die_,' he said, dropping his head down close as she squeezed her eyes shut. 'I think we can fit you in, somewhere.' She jabbed fingers up blindly at his face – did she want to think about that, now? - but he only laughed more and grabbed at her hand with his free one, captured it as she convulsed. For a minute she didn't know if it was her or the whole building shaking. Then, letting aftershocks ebb through her body, she knew. Both.

It was nice to have a sweaty warm moment, an embrace that gave them a second's pretence that this wasn't the first and the last and all they'd ever have of this. And that was all it was. The ominous shudder and grumble of the building's foundations became more than that in a split-second: became scraping, screaming, the hugely loud ear-dizzying twang of something fundamental coming loose. The floor wasn't steady, but Chloe pushed him off and ran to the window even so, and Davis followed.

Jimmy stirred as they passed, and Chloe turned to regard him with narrowed eyes. 'Maybe it's good we're going to die,' she yelled, as Davis grabbed her round the waist, both of them stark naked at the high windows. 'This could be hard to explain. Plus he was trying to kill you half an hour ago. Better way to go, huh? We found one.' She grinned, and could feel the joy: however much it would be doused by death in minutes, they had it now. He laughed, properly laughed, and nuzzled at her neck. Then she felt his head twitch against her: and his attention as it was drawn away, out the window. When he pointed it was slow: at the same moment that the window cracked, only the safety mesh holding it together. 'What?' she asked. 'I can't see a damn thing.'

He pushed her well back and punched out the glass, healing just the same in seconds. Then she could see: or at least, she could see a tiny manikin, the one he was pointing to. And she knew what it was from before. 'Clark,' she said wonderingly, and Davis nodded. Clark was upright: stumbling a little, but much, much stronger than twelve minutes previous.

'Amazing what we can come back from. _Kryptonians_,' he said – and was that a tiny trace of smugness in his voice? She punched him in the arm.

'You'd better hope he can come back _really fast,_' she warned him, then, taking a look back at Jimmy. Her ex was near-fully conscious now: and struggling up with a furious expression on his outraged face. 'Between Jimmy and Doomsday,' and as she said it there was another enraged surge, muffled yet deafening, and a lurch of construction materials that totally should not have been lurching, 'we need someone to get us out of here.'

'Yeah,' Davis agreed, squinting back and forth, but his face was calm. And happy. 'But I have complete faith in Clark.'

'You do?' she asked doubtfully, and burrowed a little closer. It was unsteady: the place was rocking. She needed stability: he was the best source.

'When would he miss a chance to smugly save the day?' Davis asked, quite reasonably.

Chloe considered, and snuggled in closer: Kryptonian body heat, so handy. 'You know, you're right. Plus, there's no time to dress: he'll have to fly us out of here _nude_. The old boy scout won't know where to look.' She still had a grin left in her, apparently. 'You know... this day could have been worse. All things considered.'


End file.
